Let the Mourners Come
by Windy City Dreamer
Summary: Post "To Hell and Back". AU. After Hotch's funeral the team gather at a local bar hoping to drown their sorrows and just maybe find a little comfort. Prentiss POV. M/P. Part 2 will be rated M. Title borrowed from W.H. Auden's "Funeral Blues."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it. Yada yada. If I did it would be a year round affair. Like Days of Our Lives, with substance.

**Author's Note: **Beta'd by the ever patient, exceptionally awesome **tfm**. This is experimental at best. The pov isn't one I'm all that used to writing in but it's what the muse dictated so I don't want to go against her when she's actually in the mood to write something. Hopefully you all enjoy it and if you do, be kind, rewind. Er, that is, review.

**Part One  
**

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"_Be courteous to all, but intimate with few, and let those few be well tried before you give them your confidence. True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to the appellation."_—George Washington

They all come after the funeral. Stumbling in, one after the other, no previous agreement made to meet up, just habit and chance and the need you all feel to be somewhere else for a while.

You are three days into a mandatory five day paid leave, half the time of bereavement leave because apparently it doesn't matter that you spend less time with your biological family than any one person on your team. That in the course of a few years time you are closer to this haggled crew than you have been to most other people in your life.

Apparently a lot of things don't matter. Like catching the killer red-handed when that red was the blood of someone you care about. The satisfaction of putting the cuffs on too tight and pretending you don't see when Morgan manhandles the bastard, using a lot more force than was necessary, is short-lived. Very short.

Milliseconds.

A short enough a time period that you're not sure whether it existed at all.

You are the first one there, sitting at the bar sipping your second glass of Jack when the door opens and JJ walks in, Garcia right behind her dressed in uncharacteristic black, the only pop of color a bright orange hibiscus pinned to her 50's style, complete with black lace veil, hat. A small smile pulls at your lips when they join you at the bar and though they smile back there is no joy in the air.

Still, the bar feels a little less empty. A little less suffocating now that you're not drinking alone. No matter there were several people sitting at the tables, enjoying the beginning of their weekend, completely unaware that for one person, that weekend had not come.

You find yourself resenting them for it, and you know this is an illogical response but it can't be helped. Not as they laugh and talk and cheer the Nationals on from their seats. This is not a happy time and their joy is intrusive. The saying is true. Misery loves company.

JJ orders a glass of wine, Garcia some obscure drink you barely catch the name of and don't bother to remember. They are both silent other than this, not for lack of anything to say, just the will to say it. This is okay. The silence isn't awkward and no one needs to talk to provide what you, and you feel it safe to assume, what they too, need right now.

It is after a half hour passes, with maybe fifteen words spoken between the three of you, that Rossi walks in. His drink is scotch. Glenlivet 12 to be precise. He waits for the bartender to slide the glass in front of him, taking a healthy swallow before speaking.

"Nice service."

It is the first any of you have mentioned the reason for the somber mood. And in a way, you're grateful but that doesn't take away the sting.

It is Garcia who quietly agrees. "Very."

You hear JJ sniff, discreetly, and frown at the sudden swell of emotion that has put that familiar and painfully tight knot in your chest and throat. A good cry would probably alleviate that. At least temporarily. The respite would be nice.

Instead you finish off your drink, the ice having long melted, and give the bartender a surreptitious signal. Another magically appears and you reach for it but do not drink. Instead you twirl the glass with your fingers, ringlets of water appearing before your eyes as the glass moves slightly forward with each rotation.

It is quiet again, that small amount of conversation swallowed up in the tension, but somehow the words stick in your head. _Nice service._

You remember exactly what it's like, something most people would attribute to the fact that only a few hours had passed between then and now. But you know it goes farther than mere cognitive memory, that this is something that will reside forever in the depths of your psyche.

After all, Hotch is your first. And it is different than you ever thought it would be.

There had been few tears at the church, none at the actual gravesite, even little Jack's face was stoically blank as he stood, one hand grasped in his mother's, the other holding a pale yellow rose. You remember vividly how much he had looked like his father just then, how you had had to look away as he left the rose on the casket's gleaming finish…

You lift your glass and drink.

Almost thirteen years in the bureau and this is the first time a fellow agent's death has touched so close to home. Maybe because the BAU _is_ home.

So deep are you into your thoughts that Reid has escaped your notice until he's almost at the bar and you start slightly at his greeting.

"Hey." His voice is slightly graveled and thick, the way it always gets when he's struggling with his emotions. He looks tired and drawn. His skin is much paler than usual and you wonder if he's been sleeping.

"Hey." You nod and give him the same smile you had shown JJ and Garcia, the latter of whom pats the stool next to her. None of the usual witty comments about her baby boy or junior g-man accompany the gesture, just a comforting squeeze of his arm, firm and quick, a move that you're pretty sure the analyst hadn't meant to be observed.

He orders his drink, gin, which surprises you slightly. The times you've seen Reid drinking are rare. And even then a shot or two of midlevel whiskey had been as racy as he had ever gotten on those post case outings.

But Reid's choice of drink is unimportant now. Scotch, bourbon, beer, spritzer. None of it matters as long as it takes the edge off.

Because Alcohol is a magical liquid. It doesn't wash away the pain or drown it out or anything like that. But it does make it just that little bit easier to talk and that is a ability lot that none of you walked in with.

It's not long before the group has reached the point where laughter is indiscernible from tears. Stories are shared, and though it is not lost on you that everyone seems to have more memories of good times shared, more tales to tell, it does not bother you. Not now. Now you merely listen and laugh and drink until the ache is almost replaced by the warm glow of alcohol and shared reminiscences.

But the gathering can't go on forever, no matter how much you all wish that you wouldn't have to face returning to work and staring up into that now empty office. That you can pretend there is no sadness lacing each and every story. That there will not be such sadness for years and years to come.

Morgan had showed up shortly after the first few stories had been told—JJ recalling her first day at the BAU and Rossi sharing his first encounter with an in-over-his-head prosecutor that they all almost didn't recognize as Hotch.

He had merged with the group silently. Instead of sitting at the bar itself he turns a chair from the nearest table and sits, nodding in response to the murmured greetings of the group as he takes the first sip of his beer. Morgan looks as bad off as the rest of you do, and somehow, slightly worse. You doubt anyone fails to notice that he hasn't really joined all of you but no one is going to make an issue of it, especially not today.

So the stories continue, Morgan finally contributing his first of three stories halfway through his second glass. The mood has shifted some. You are all still grieving, but there's been some healing too.

But all good things come to an end. That is a lesson taught first hand this week.

Rossi is the first to go. Glancing at his watch and saying something about needing 'more beauty rest than you kids'. The smiles you all give him are a little more relaxed this time, a little less pained. But it is like someone pulled the drain on a tub. Within the hour, everyone else has gone too, off to grieve in private now. Needing their space and time to try and make sense of a senseless thing.

Everyone except Morgan.

And you.

Neither of you seem ready to leave just yet but there is one dilemma: if you stay at the bar, you will continue to drink. And nothing good has ever come from pain and grief and an almost endless supply of booze. Not for you. And, you're sure, not for him either.

So you only sit around another half hour. Enough time to finish your drink and to wave off the bartender when he's ready to pour another.

Morgan had surprised you by ordering only beer. Even JJ had graduated from wine to martinis and it was rare that you ever saw the media liaison drink anything harder than a glass of chardonnay, maybe a beer. The reason was simple for that though, she wanted, needed, a clear head. Even in your down time there is never a guarantee that you won't end up having to fly off to God knows where and chase after some sadist, or thrill killer, or rapist. No need for such restriction when there would be no chase to go on. Not for another two days.

Your surprise over his choice of drink hadn't lasted long though. Liquor loosens tongues and Morgan, arguably the most imposing, rough and tumble member of the team, could also be one of the most guarded. Vulnerable, even. He would never admit to this and no one would ever dare say so out loud, but you all know. His scars have never fully healed.

He had moved to the bar once it had dwindled to a party of three, Garcia had rounded out the trio then. You turn to him now, a sigh leaving your lips. "I should probably get out of here…"

You're not drunk, never had any intention to get drunk, but you had cabbed it to the bar anyway. Not being drunk and being able to slide behind the wheel of a car are two different things. But it was simple science to know that two and a half beers would not have much effect on Morgan. And it's no surprise when he offers to drive you back to your brownstone.

You accept.

The building is cast in shadow when you two arrive, the hour late enough where curtains are pulled but the streetlights have yet to come on. It seems as dark and wholly uninviting as the idea of being alone with your thoughts. For a moment you almost propose that you both head back to the bar but instead you ask if he wants to come up for a minute. It's a bit of a desperate play but that's okay because you _are _desperate. You do not want to be alone.

Whether he picks up on that or not, you do not know. What's more, you do not care. He accepts and you lead the way through the halls of the brownstone, digging out your keys as you approach your door. You offer him coffee as you flip on a light in the kitchen but he declines. A good thing possibly, because it occurs to you that you may not have coffee anyway. But what you do have is a brand new bottle of amber hued liquid in a cabinet above the sink. A gift, you remember, though you can't recall who it's from.

Morgan wordlessly accepts the offer you extend and you gather two glasses from the cabinet, pouring a generous if not overly liberal amount in each. He takes his tumbler with a muffled 'thanks' and glances towards the living room. He has been here before, though not often, and he doesn't hesitate to move to the oversized couch in the living room, you following right behind him with your own glass and the bottle.

You talk as you drink, the conversation blessedly mundane and mindless. You don't want to think right now. Every time you do, your brain conjures up images of the casket and Jack and contrived but graphic visuals of Hotch's final moments. But then the conversation trickles to a halt and your mind begins to travel that road on its own.

It isn't until right then that you begin to cry. Silent tears that you seem unable to stop, that feel as though they have been building up since JJ first called you to tell you the news that Hotch was dead. And perhaps they have been. Grieving has never been something you were very good at. It wasn't something you could easily shove into a box and shut away from the working part of your psyche. It looms, like the darkest clouds of the most unearthly storms, slowly encompassing you until you're forced to handle it one way or another.

Vainly, you wipe at the stream of tears, feeling exposed and foolish. You try to excuse yourself, to escape to the privacy of the bathroom or bedroom until you could pull yourself together, but the hand on your arm stops you and you turn your blurred gaze to Morgan who looks as ragged as you feel.

"Don't."

His thumb on your cheek is not a gentle caress, and if you hadn't already known, the roughness of his skin would have told you he worked with his hands. It only lasts a second, the track he had managed to wipe away instantly reestablished by fresh tears but something has shifted.

It doesn't manifest itself until after you've almost cried yourself out, your cheek at some point having come to rest on his shoulder as he holds you, You feel foolish for breaking down like this, that you couldn't at least hold the misery at bay until he had gone and you were alone. But there is no denying that having a real shoulder to cry own seems to have helped ease the tightness some. Not much, but it does feel as though you're breathing just that little bit easier.

This time when he touches you it's softer. You would call it hesitant if not for the fact that his hand lingers on your skin. It distracts you for a moment, catching you off guard making you shift. His hand slips away as you raise your head to meet his gaze, you can feel it resting comfortably on the small of your back. His features are almost unreadable but, somehow, you know. You know and you accept it, welcome it, when he leans into you. Your eyes close just before you feel his lips ghost yours, your brain sending up the faintest of warnings before you silence it.

_You don't want to think right now_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Beta'd by the ever patient, exceptionally awesome tfm and my ace in the hole, super secret, name-cannot-be-said beta who...well, I can't tell you much more cuz then I'd have to kill you. And no one wants that, right?

**Part Two**

**-**

You allow your body to take the lead, kissing him back, tasting the liquor and the salt of your tears. He seems to have been waiting for your cue, the kiss growing slightly more urgent now, still unhurried but leaving no doubt as to where things are heading now that he's not just testing the waters.

The kiss doesn't last nearly long enough but it is you who breaks away, your breathing ragged and shallow as you satisfy your need for oxygen. Right away you can see the question in his eyes, the beginnings of an apology too. He shakes his head, starts to speak. "I shouldn—"

Countering with a sharp shake of your own head, you cut him off, replying with a low but firm "No." You back it up by shifting to face him more fully on the sofa, knee sinking into the plush cushions as you draw it up under you. "Just…don't, okay?" you say, and your words low, breathing still uneven, tinged with need and just slightly with the sadness that's still lurking close to the surface. You don't give it the chance to reclaim its hold on you, reestablishing a physical connection before either of you can voice anything further. You don't want to think, but feeling is something you're more confident you can handle.

Derek doesn't seem to doubt that fact, his hands no longer passive as they trace down your sides, coming to rest on your hips. Neither of you are trying to rush things and for a while they just retrace that route as you explore each other's mouths, the only change when his hands delve beneath your top and touch your skin.

It is he who breaks the contact this time and you let out a noise that's half way between disapproval and a gasp for air. At some point you had come to straddle his lap. You don't really remember it but your knees are now planted on either side of his hips, though you're still hovering a few inches above him, something he's apparently not pleased with as his grip tightens on your hips and he pulls you down so that you feel him pressing against you. He moves his hips, grinding against you, spurring another gasp, softer this time, your fingers curling in the soft material of his shirt. What had started out as a dull, aching need catches and spreads, your body going warm from the inside out. You rock against him and he grunts, the sound mingling with your own soft curse as his lips find your jaw, drawing a line up to the sensitive area below your ear. You tilt your head to grant him better access, your mind going blissfully blank as every available bit of your awareness focuses in on the way he's making you feel.

He's tugging at the bottom of your shirt and you move to help him, sitting back and gripping the hem and tugging upward, dropping the top to the floor. He makes an appreciative sound as his gaze catches on your breast, and his open appraisal is enough to make you blush slightly at the nothing special black cotton bra you had grabbed blindly from the drawer that morning as you got ready for the funeral. Hotch's funeral.

The memory sends another wave of sadness, smothering some of the heat that has built up in the past few moments. You frown slightly, mad at yourself for reasons that aren't entirely clear but having a lot to do without being able to control the pain. Morgan's back hits that of the sofa with a bit more force that necessary when you push him back, his brow arching slightly at you though he remains silent on the unexpected aggression. You have little doubt he doesn't already know where it's coming from.

Instead his hands reach for the clasp at your back, making quick, expert work of it before circling around to grasp the soft flesh he's just uncovered. His voice is almost a growl when he murmurs a soft curse, his thumbs grazing sensitive peaks, chasing away the memory and making your eyes drop closed as you breathe a sigh.

His mouth replaces one of his hands and you drop your head, your hair falling forward and forming a curtain around your face. "Jesus, Derek…" A soft shudder traces along your spin as he switches to the other mound, treating it to the same teasing play. It's distracting and frustrating and you quickly want more than he's giving. You rock your hips against his again, more forceful this time, and he gets the message instantly, leaving your breast and reaching for your neck to tug you forward, meeting your lips with his.

"Bedroom," he grunts against your mouth, and you actually have to think about it for a brief moment before you reply.

"Upstairs."

He grunts again, his only reply except to wrap an arm around your waist and use the other to push off the couch. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, even as you start to protest that you can walk. He ignores you, carrying you the short distance to the staircase, managing to navigate the stairs with his face buried in your neck.

"First door on the right," you breathe, and he obliges entering the darkened doorway and pausing momentarily, his lips leaving your skin as you can only assume he lets his eyes adjust enough to see rough outlines. The bed isn't hard to spot, it's in the center of the room, headboard against one wall, just a few steps from the door. He has your back against the mattress before you have time to tell him this, and you can feel his gaze on you in the dark as he quickly loses his shirt and begins to work on his pants.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he asks, low and husky.

His words surprise you, your fingers stopping at your zipper as you feel a different kind of heat creeping up your chest and into your cheeks and suddenly you're thankful for the dark. He hadn't had to say that, it definitely wasn't in the script you had written in your mind. You're not sure what to make of his statement—and that's what it had been, really—and so you say nothing. He doesn't seem to mind the silence, stepping out of his pants and boxers as if he hadn't spoken at all.

Your eyes aren't fully adjusted so you can't see anything more than his shadow as he joins you on bed, next to you not on top. The feeling of his hand brushing yours as he reaches for your zipper drawing you from a trance you hadn't realized you were still in. You let him guide the zipper down, your body tensing slightly in anticipation as his hand brushes so close to where you want his attention most. The increase in adrenaline, in your need, almost makes you forget what he said mere seconds ago. Almost.

"You really think I'm beautiful?" You hear the words before you realize you've said them and close your eyes, thinking for the first time that the last drink or two probably hadn't been a great idea. You can feel the heat rise further and know that your face is blazing red. Again, he catches you off guard.

His chuckle is deep, his breath warm on your ear and neck, his hand slipping past the waistbands of the last two pieces of clothing you wear. "I know you are."

You shudder and know it has to with more than the fact that his fingers are inching towards your center. You feel silly for it. Sillier still when you reply. "You too."

He laughs again, his lips against your neck the sound vibrating against your skin and making you shudder again, the light nip that follows gaining him a soft moan. "That so, Princess," he says, at your ear now, the sometimes nickname sounding a lot better when his voice was a low rumble, rough with desire.

His fingers reach their destination then, before you can reply and you gasp and arch when they press against your clit. "Fuck," you murmur, biting your lower lip and closing your eyes. He says something but you can't make it out, his voice muffled by your skin as he moves back to your neck, suckling your pulse point, the sensations mingling with those coming from the bundle of nerves at his finger tips.

Your fingers circle his wrist, more for something to hold on to than any desire for him to stop or slow down. Your breath hitches as he shifts slightly, finding you more than ready when he eases one finger inside and then another, his thumb taking their place on your clit. You arch harder as he picks up speed, his voice registering again but the words as indiscernible as before, or maybe your thought center is too muddled to process them. It doesn't matter. Not as your muscles clench and your body gives a hard shudder, a soft cry leaving your lips.

You're breathing hard when he moves to kiss you, soft and reminiscent of when he had first kissed you on the couch. You can feel the bed shift as his weight is removed from the mattress and seconds later his fingers brush your skin as he slips them over your waistband and tugs your pants down and off.

It's vaguely ironic considering what he had just finished doing to you, but now that you're completely naked a feeling of vulnerability strikes you. You tense, just slightly but Derek notices instantly, his head cocking in the dark as he looks at you.

"We can stop."

He means it and that fact alone does something to quell the nerves that have sprung up. They don't simply disappear, but it's enough to remind you that this is Derek and you trust him. If you didn't things never would have gotten this far. You would've gone their separate ways after everyone had gathered at the bar.

It's another reminder of the day, of its magnitude and for a moment the weight is crushing, fresh tears springing to your eyes before you can lock it all away again. You give a shaky sigh, closing your eyes against the tears and then the bed dips again and you feel Derek's arms come around you. You don't want to cry again though, not anymore. Not today. You don't think you can take any more.

"I'm okay," you say, cursing yourself for not sounding it. He kisses your forehead but doesn't say anything, his arms still snug around you but it's clear you can pull away when and if you want to. You linger for a moment, taking deep soothing breaths until you feel you've got yourself under control. You don't pull away though, not completely. Instead you simply search out his mouth with your own, a slow, lingering kiss that you're almost certain helps you put the final pieces back together.

You reach between your bodies, noticing his size for the first time, and the nerves spike again. "Shit," you murmur, another unintentional slip of the tongue, and you bury your face against his shoulder at the sound of his soft laughter.

"That wasn't funny," you manage, running your hand along his length, an act that cuts the laugh short.

"No?" he asks, but his voice isn't as nonchalant as you have a feeling he meant it to be and you smile despite yourself.

"No," you reply shaking your head and plant a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

He grunts a reply and you can hear the shallowness of his breathing, feel his pulse against your lips as you press another kiss to the base of his throat. He groans sharply when you run your thumb across the tip, and you grin but he doesn't let you get much farther than that, gripping your wrist with one hand and rolling you both until you lay on your back beneath him. You can feel the weight pressing passively against your center but it's still enough to send a tremor of awareness coursing through your body.

He leans down to kiss you, another slow, drawn out affair that leaves you just breathless but not entirely ready to give up the contact. He forces your hand though, rocking his hips slightly so that his length rubs against you, the resulting spark making you break away with a moan.

He moves away too and you're unsure for a moment as to why until realization dawns that he's most likely going for a condom.

Donning the protection, he returns to the bed quickly. He's watching you now, studying you almost and you know exactly what it is he's looking for. You give a short nod, licking your lips. "It's okay," you tell him, lifting up slightly to catch his mouth, assuring him of your words. He hesitates only briefly before reaching down and guiding himself to you, easing inside. You wince, just slightly, but he notices and waits for your nod before continuing, slow and gentle.

"Christ," you groan softly, swallowing hard and wrapping your legs around his hips as he starts to move. It's a mixture of sensations at first, pleasure and a very faint amount of pain. But the pain fades almost instantly, your breath ratcheting with each controlled thrust.

He feels good, very good and you hear yourself tell him so, a hissed 'fuck' your reply as he ups the tempo a little. You catch yourself digging your nails into his shoulders and back more than once, but he has yet to utter a single complaint and stopping yourself requires too much thought. Instead you wrap your legs around him, closing your eyes and letting the words bubble freely from your throat. It doesn't surprise you that about half of them aren't even English.

That's he's close is evident in the tensing of his muscles, the way his thrusts have gone a little erratic, the pick-up in pace. The fact you aren't far behind can probably be attested to by at least two neighbors, but tonight you don't care about that. You're learning to live in the here and now. And now Derek is shifting to one arm and letting his other snake between your bodies. His intended target makes you buck under him, your nails digging into his skin again as you grind out his name and another curse.

When you come, it's not accompanied by the same soft cry as before. It couldn't possibly be when he is still thrusting as you clench around him and his hand is still firmly planted between your legs. No, it's hard and delicious and limb-numbing, and you're pretty sure the list of neighbors with complaints may have risen.

Derek follows almost immediately behind you, a few final thrusts and he grunts your name, kissing you hard and rolling so that you lay on top of him. There is a long moment of silence as both of you catch your breath, the only sound in the room your panting and the soft woosh of the central air.

Derek presses one last kiss to your temple, his hand tracing lazy, nonsensical patterns on your back and you admit to yourself that it feels nice. You are an optimist but you're not out of touch with reality. With the reality of what the two of you have just done.

You can't help but wait for regret to surface as the afterglow fades away and the almost silence permeates the darkened room.

It doesn't. And you don't question this. Not as Derek's hand stills on your back and you hear his breathing even out in sleep and not as your own lids grow heavy and exhaustion begins to sing its siren song for you. It is no longer on your mind when you finally succumb to the song, allowing it to pull you into a dreamless sleep.

-

"_We have to believe that even the briefest of human connections can heal. Otherwise, life is unbearable."—_Agate Nesaule

The End.

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**A/N:** Hope you all enjoyed my little experiment and though reviews don't quite make the world go 'round, it's always nice to hear what you all thought. And a big ol' thank you to those of you who've already given your feedback. 'Til next time...


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